The Coaching System-Chapter 184: Bradford City vs Fenerbahçe (UECL League Stage, Matchday 1) Part 4

Darke:

"Ooooh just wide! That was the chance!"

Owen:

"Got to say, that's an unbelievable run—but the finish… agonizing."

On the touchline, Jake's hands fly to his head. For the first time all night, his composure cracks. Paul sits back on the bench and buries his face in the scouting folder, muttering something unintelligible.

Richter sinks to a crouch, fists balled. Silva gives him a quick pat on the back, then yells for the next press.

Valley Parade claps in appreciation—but there's a groan in the noise, like a held breath not quite exhaled.

66' –

It begins like a routine passage—Amrabat gliding through midfield, chin up, the ball tied to his boots. Vélez is tight, harrying his every step, but not diving in. Barnes steps out from the back to help. Just enough bodies. Just enough control.

But Amrabat slows.

A sudden hesitation. A feint to the left. Barnes doesn't bite—just steadies himself and tracks.

Then Amrabat steps across the line—literally. He drags his back foot, grazing Barnes' shin as he stumbles forward.

There's a half-second of silence. Then the whistle cuts the air like a slap.

Commentator – Ian Darke:

"Oh no… he's given it! The referee's pointed to the spot!"

The entire stadium lurches forward. Groans ripple like thunderclouds.

Vélez throws both arms in the air. Emeka runs straight to the referee, pointing at the replay board, shouting something that's swallowed by the noise. Fletcher turns to Jake, disbelief scrawled across his face.

Jake doesn't move.

He just stares.

Not at the referee. Not at Amrabat.

At the penalty spot.

Tadić places the ball.

The Croatian veteran barely looks up. Emeka stays upright, trying to read something—anything. But Tadić offers nothing.

Just a deep breath.

A stutter step.

The strike—low, hard, left corner.

Emeka dives right.

The net ripples.

Darke:

"And Fenerbahçe retake the lead. It's cruel on Bradford. 3–2."

The Turkish end detonates in red smoke and flares—arms flailing, drums thundering behind the goal.

Barnes slaps his palms together in frustration. Vélez stands hands on hips, still shaking his head. Jake blinks slowly once, jaw grinding, but still—no outburst.

Just a faint word to Paul Roberts beside him.

Jake (quietly):

"Get Mensahi up."

There's still time. But now, they're chasing again.

Again.

71' –

Th𝗲 most uptodate novels are published on ƒгeewёbnovel.com.

From the restart, there's no hesitation.

Bardghji picks up where he left off—on the half-turn, dancing around pressure, skipping across two yellow shirts with a slalom-like touch that draws roars from the crowd. He looks up once, twice, and chips a ball over the retreating Fenerbahçe line.

It floats into chaos.

Costa meets it with the top of his head—just enough to flick it backward.

Silva arrives, timing the run perfectly.

Left foot. Mid-air. A volley lashed with full intent—

Smack!

Straight into Milan Škriniar's back.

The ball bounces out like it struck concrete.

Commentator – Ian Darke: "Good heavens, he's made of iron! Silva caught that sweetly, but it found the Slovak wall!"

Valley Parade gasps. Jake turns to his bench.

He's seen enough.

Substitutions Incoming.

📥 Costa OFF – Mensah ON

📥 Ibáñez OFF – Lowe ON

📥 Fletcher OFF – Kang Min-Jae ON

📥 Rojas OFF – James Richards ON

Jake claps each player on the back as they jog off—calm, firm.

To Mensah: "Run their legs into the dirt."

To Lowe: "Get us ticking."

To Kang: "You win your battles. Simple."

To Richards: "Play fast. Think faster."

Bradford are reloading—fresh legs, fresh energy.

The last twenty minutes are coming.

And Jake's not settling for 3–2.

79' –

It begins with calm—Kang Min-Jae, barely flinching under pressure, taps the ball across to Vélez at the edge of his own third. But Vélez doesn't dwell. He spins off Fred with a touch so smooth it draws a ripple of gasps. A pirouette, a glance up, and he's surging.

Jake shouts from the touchline, one arm raised, but the players already know.

Silva breaks wide into the left channel, screaming for it.

Vélez obliges, threading a perfect pass, one that glides across the grass like it's got a mind of its own. Silva doesn't hesitate. He brings it forward, feet dancing just outside the penalty area.

Richter darts right, dragging Škriniar with him.

Silva waits.

Then—bang—slides it inside the channel. A reverse pass so sharp it nearly splits the turf.

Richter's first touch is velvet.

He draws two defenders in—then, without looking, cuts it square across the six-yard box.

And there he is.

Mensah.

Charging into frame like a bullet. One touch. Laces through it.

Bang.

Back of the net.

Commentator – Ian Darke: "Yes! YES! What a response! What a game! 3–3!"

Valley Parade detonates.

Scarves hurled into the air. Smoke bombs thrown from the Kop. The sound is thunder. A storm of limbs and noise and disbelief.

Mensah sprints toward the dugout, arms out like wings. He slides on his knees. The bench clears—Jake, Paul Roberts, everyone charging toward him in a euphoric blur.

Silva drops to the turf, arms raised. Vélez points to the sky.

Jake, for once, doesn't hold back. He pumps both fists and roars into the night.

From 2–3 down to 3–3.

They're alive. And they want more.

88' –

It comes fast. Too fast.

Saint-Maximin collects it near the halfway line and tears forward, cutting inside Bardghji, then outside of Taylor. The crowd tenses—every footstep sounds heavier. He's in rhythm now, head up, scanning.

He hits it early—an outswinging cross toward the penalty spot. Džeko reads it, drifting between Barnes and Kang Min-Jae like a ghost slipping through walls.

He rises—measured, deadly.

Commentator (Ian Darke):

"Oh, this is trouble…"

The header is clean. Angled down. Textbook.

It bounces once—fast, skidding.

But Emeka's already reading it. His positioning, perfect. His hands, solid.

He drops to his knees, absorbs the ball, then rolls forward, clutching it to his chest like it's worth gold.

The whole stadium exhales at once. You'd think they'd been holding their breath for an hour.

Jake doesn't move. He just nods—once.

90+2' –

One last gasp—and it's not Bradford with it.

Amrabat wins a second ball in midfield, toeing it past Vélez. He flicks it right, where Szymański is already sprinting.

Bradford's backline is momentarily square. Kang yells for someone to step.

Too late.

Szymański hits it low across the box—pinpoint.

Tadić times his run, ghosts in behind Taylor. One touch.

Jake's heart skips.

He strikes it clean—bottom right corner—

Commentator (Darke):

"Is that the winner?!"

No.

Emeka again.

The keeper dives full-stretch, fingertips brushing the ball and pushing it just wide.

Corner given. But it doesn't matter.

The referee looks at his watch, raises the whistle—

Three short blasts.

FULL TIME: Bradford City 3 – 3 Fenerbahçe.